Immortality is a Disease
by morgenhimmel
Summary: A failed apocalypse. World War III. Gilbert Beilschmidt did not realise that he would fall in love with his grandfather's murderess, and Ludwig Beilschmidt had not believed in monsters until he met Feliciano Vargas
1. Stories and Tales

_**Immortality is a Disease**_

Stories and Tales

Gilbert Beilschmidt was, in all likeliness, Mister Laurinaitis' least favourite student, the simple and truthful reason being that although very bright, he would, for the love of God, _never_ listen in class. Nearly two hundred days of the year, and somehow the boy finds something he had to do in class _every single day_ and that kept him busy for most of the seven hours at school. Of course, his grades never took a major blow, always managing to stay afloat above average, a feat that never quite made sense to Mister Laurinaitis. That didn't matter much to teacher though; he just wished that the boy would _sit down_ and _shut up_ for once in his classes.

Now, Mister Laurinaitis did not know much about Gilbert Beilschmidt – it was a teacher's obligation to remain aloof to his students – but there was one thing he was certain of, and it did nothing to ease his confusion, but Gilbert was fond of stories.

Of course, they weren't your typical stories. For six hours out of seven, the boy was a rowdy, uncontrollable nightmare, but on the last hour of the day, when the class settled down with maps on the board and dates and names scrawled in their notes, Gilbert could be found silent for once, his pale complexion and hair blending well with the rest of the Northern children, but those vivid crimson eyes were staring – at what, Mister Laurinaitis did not know, but he had the idea that it was not in their present day or world. Gilbert Beilschmidt had an intense fondness for stories, and that shone through his boisterous behaviour in the one hour when Mister Laurinaitis spoke tales of Enlightenment and religion, of culture and languages and accomplishments that created their world.

There were more, of course, and Mister Laurinaitis vividly remembered one day with gray skies when Gilbert had been particularly mischievous during Maths – which, shockingly enough, was his most talented facet – and the teacher was forced to keep him into the lunch break for his atrocious behaviour. The boy wouldn't look his way, instead choosing to stare past his shoulder even when he called him.

"Gilbert, look at me."

There was no reaction.

Mister Laurinaitis tried again. "Gilbert, why did you do it?" He was referring to the matches he had smuggled into the schoolroom and had tried to burn words onto a piece of paper, almost setting it – and the rest of the school – on fire.

Once again, he was met with silence, but he waited until- "Mister Laurinaitis," the boy's voice was small, but it was guilty or embarrassed in any way. In fact, he sounded... curious. "Tell me about 2364 again."

That was when Mister Laurinaitis realised with a jolt that Gilbert had not been avoiding his gaze, instead absorbing the stretch of world map taped to the wall in the back of the room. He stole a glance over his shoulder, taking in the misshapen shapes and jagged borderlines, in mottled shades of green, yellow, and blue. But then, no matter how hard he tried, his eyes were drawn towards the very centre of the map, where the earthly colours broke off abruptly into a huge, ugly patch of gray and black.

He turned back to Gilbert to find those crimson eyes tracing the labels beside the dark areas: the _'Dead Sea'_ adjacent to the _'Dead Land_ '.

"Tell me why you did that in Maths." Curious as Mister Laurinaitis was of Gilbert's fascination with historical tales, he was determined not to get distracted.

"Tell me about 2364." But the boy was stubborn as well, and his gaze finally shifted to meet his, locking in defiance. There was silence again, one that stretched for much, much longer, and then Mister Laurinaitis felt himself waver, then sigh, and gave into the devil's stare.

"2364?" He flipped his chair around so that he was facing the map as well, honestly not understanding why he was doing this, or why he was even asked to do this in the first place. 2364 was the story that all children knew, the same thing retold in detail over and over again ever since childhood. There was no one in this world who did not know of the failed apocalypse of the year 2364.

Although they say 'failed', Mister Laurinaitis, like many others, believed that it was the exact opposite. According to the Bible, the first time civilisation was wiped smoothly from the surface of the Earth was through water.

The second time, however, the world ended in fire. And humanity did not go down easily. Maybe the world was too big, or maybe it was simply a miscalculation on Nature's part, but on that day when fire fell from the heavens, most of the world remained unscathed.

 _Most_ of the world, that was. The first strike hit the alleged 'centre of the world', earth erupting into a tornado of flames, and ever since then, the meteor rain had fallen rapidly and without end for days and months and more, expanding from the eye of the storm until everyone, even those in the far corners of the world, began to fear. Each drop of 'rain' shattered on contact to tear away chunks of earth, overturning and destroying everything, burning more relentlessly than Greek fire, leaving life no more than charred black streaks on the cracking land.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the so-called apocalypse vanished, and the world began to survey the damage of what was thought to be its end.

They were not impressed.

The plummeting blow had been too concentrated in the centre of the map, and true, some nations were damaged, others reduced to half or less of their original sizes, and even more vanished completely, but the rest of the world brushed off the dust, swept up the remainders of the 'apocalypse', laughed it off, and carried on smoothly. The world population took a major dive, and the land torn open by fiery rocks of death was consumed by a desert wasteland, completely inhabitable by all organisms save for bacteria and other hardy microorganisms. There was no food, no water until you hit the ashy, poisonous sea waters lapping at charred beaches that used to be the Eastern half of the Mediterranean Sea: it was the true Gobi Desert, a Dead Land, bordering a Dead Sea.

 _This was the end of the world_ ; and people were almost disappointed.

But it was only the beginning, for that was the way the world ended: not with a bang, but with the slow grinding of ice against flame.

A decade later, the situation was critical. The Wasteland, more commonly known as the Dead Land, was a desert that gained more land with each passing year; it had become a death zone, its writhing land and fiery plumes sending smoke into the sky, causing a significant rise in global temperature. The two poles melted into green, glaciers vanishing faster than ever; sea levels rose, and it wasn't just islands who found themselves with no or much less land than before. Unsupervised expeditions into the dead lands brought back explosions of varying epidemics that, although not as large-scaled as the Black Death, was crippling nonetheless.

As the years passed, it only got worse. It wasn't just the planet anymore, it was the people: resources were dwindling in spite of the growing population, and once again, the nations flocked towards Africa and China.

That was when the world broke.

"Where are you going?" Mister Laurinaitis broke out of the story when Gilbert slid suddenly off the chair and onto his feet.

"Thanks for the story, Mister Laurinaitis," the pale boy replied quite cheerfully, although his eyes were wide and unseeing. "I'll be going to lunch now."

"Gilbert-," the teacher tried to call him back, not simply because they still had 'business' to discuss, but because there was a strange fracture in him that came with unfinished stories and it never ceased to bother him.

Gilbert gave a small wave over his shoulder, and was gone.

The rest of that day, he did not attend his classes. He refused to enter the classroom. When Mister Laurinaitis called him in, he remained stubborn but consented to remain just outside the open door so that he could listen to the class. The last hour of the day, however, when Mister Laurinaitis checked outside to see if the boy would listen to those favourite tales of his, there was no one there. The backpack and books were gone too, and the boy could not be found anywhere in the school.

Gilbert Beilschmidt had gone home early, not because he was trying to rebel, but because there was something from a recount of hundreds of years ago that shook him to his core. It was that ache of lives gone and mistakes made when your own little world was nearly perfect.

Stories, he discovered, brought him to another world. It fascinated him before, now it frightened him, and there was a kind of immortality in these tales that made them resound and echo and continue on forever. There was no end in life until immortality was uprooted. The stories were wonderful, but immortality terrified him.

He was home early, but his mother did not seem to care. She spent the afternoon mindlessly making dinner, and that day, the dinner table was extra quiet. Neither he nor Ludwig had understood what, but his parents were tense and pale, and for the first time in several years, they spoke in their native tongue. Gilbert and his brother merely listened to words they vaguely knew but had never really encountered.

German was such a nice language, he remembered thinking. Much better than Russian, that was; much softer, with more rounded tones. It was a pity they could not speak it often, and it made sense but was nonetheless baffling to Gilbert's twelve-year-old mind. It was true that the North hated the West, but how did discouraging all 'Western' languages make the North better or stronger? He did not understand.

Gilbert and Ludwig were born in the West and grew up in the North, and he thought both sides were quite nice. He never thought he had to pick a side-

"Gilbert?"

"What is it, Ludwig?" It was the middle of the night.

"I think you would like to see this."

"Show me tomorrow."

"No, _bruder_ , you have to see this. I found it in the trash, and Mama and Papa can't find out."

With a groan the elder flipped out of bed, then flopped back on top of it when Ludwig sat down at the edge with his hands full of a large piece of crumpled paper. He put it down and began to smooth it out, and Gilbert used a flashlight to discover what it was that Ludwig had brought to him. It was the earliest edition of the biweekly newspaper.

Gilbert never thought he had to pick a side.

The world was broken. It had been broken for a long time, but that day, it shattered. Russia had always been the North, but now its allies were part of the North as well. America was the West, and many European countries such as England, France, and Germany had been considered the West as well, but now all those in Europe who were not 'Northern', were now 'Western'. The East was a formidable bunch: China, Japan, Korea, and all those surviving nations from the Middle East and South-East Asia, and they were quite fond of the North. Everyone's end-goal, without doubt, was the South: Africa mainly, but South America wasn't bad too, and Australia and its neighbour New Zealand were quite nice as well.

Gilbert never thought he'd have to pick a side, until he was gripping the newspaper, nearly ripping it, the year was 2850, and the North had declared war on the West.

 **Δ**

He wondered when the war was going to end. They all did. Not one day passed without the question drifting past his mind, and it never ceased to worm its way into their conversations and seep into his dreams.

Eight years. That was how long the borders' been closed. Eight years ago was the last time anyone entered or left the country by their own free will.

Ten years was how long they've stopped speaking the language of their roots; Gilbert barely even remembered how to speak German anymore as reformation and nationalism was thrust into their arms and forbade them from speaking another tongue.

Eleven years was how long they've been fighting. No one even knew what they were fighting for anymore. People killed simply to kill, simply to have something to do, simply to destroy the world a bit more.

It was moments like these that he would remember Mister Laurinaitis' historic tales – _'that was when the world broke'_ – and laugh. Adults spoke of the world as if it had once been whole, but that was never the case. It had always been broken, had always been in varying stages of fragmentation, and this war- this war was just another stage, where it shattered.

China – their powerful ally in the East – had a saying: "分久必合，合久必分."

Unity came from ages of separation; separation came from ages of unity.

He wondered how much longer of separation the world needed before its unity.

He also wondered if God, by separating the men he had crafted with his own hands with different tongues and conflicting thoughts, had anticipated this fractured world. But it had been nearly five years since the last time Gilbert had stepped into a church, so he had practically forgotten the way of God's thinking.

And he probably never would. Most churches had already been abolished, and the Beilschmidt's did not need another reason for the authorities to arrest them and send them to a concentration camp. Religion was discouraged to the point of discrimination, and foreign immigrants, refugees, and rebels were already being deported by the thousands. He knew that the only reason why they were not part of the group of victims of the government's ideals was because of his grandfather's status in the military. It was also the only reason why Gilbert was able to stay in school, then enrol into the military at the age of eighteen despite having a foreign name.

And it was in the military that he first heard the stories.

Fairytales, more like; it was unlike anything he had ever heard before.

Because for eight years now, the only way out of the North was through the Dead Land, and it had gotten its name for a reason. No one had ever survived a trip through it, and those who dared venture into its expanding borders came back with horrific tales of crackling and boiling and writhing land, and poison air, and the complete barrenness of the place: no life, no water, just hard, unpredictable earth, for miles and miles without end.

That was the truth; that was the way the world had become, confirmed by the drones occasionally sent into the land – although not many of those little machines make it back due to its unbearable heat at day, and deadly coldness at night. Nearly five hundred years since the failed apocalypse, and the world had not healed even fraction, as it had cracked beyond repair: this war between the four corners of the world was more than enough proof; the Dead Land and Sea was only the beginning.

And that is why the tales were so strange, so outlandish. Because how was it possible for people to escape into the West through the Dead Land when even the most durable technology had been vanquished by its harsh environment? It was impossible, needless to say.

But if that was the case, where did all the refugees go? Why was it that on the blacklist, so many people and names did not even seem to exist in the North?

Mysterious, suspicious, but the government checked and rechecked and added to the border security, and still people continued to disappear.

And here, because they were young men with their heads in the clouds and trying to live up their dreams the best they could, a rumour rose between the clinking of bottles and boisterous laughter and loud voices, emerging through the smoke and drunken haze. Gilbert listened, and he laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool, and he had to raise his cup to the soldier – a Chernikov or Volkov or something he couldn't remember with all the alcohol soaking and dripping from his thoughts – because the man had proposed in between gulps of heavy intoxication that "there was a spirit living in the desert, benevolent to people with pure souls and wrathful to those who didn't".

It was one of the only things he had remembered from that night when he woke in the morning with a pounding headache, and he thought it so funny that at breakfast, he had announced that this soldier – a Yuditsky apparently, what the heck – believed that the Dead Land was haunted. He had been awarded with a round of applause and pleased, entertained laughter, and life continued with or without this little joke of a rumour.

But speaking of rumours, Gilbert caught wind of one that made him too curious for his own good.

It was one just as outrageous as the other one, but it was whispered in such hushed and frightened tones that Gilbert could not help but just _wonder_. They spoke about the Generals and leaders of the military – maybe that was why they were so secretive and reluctant to let Gilbert hear, with his grandfather being one of them and all – and it certainly wasn't anything good.

To be honest though, it wasn't too bad either.

But it was strange, it was frightening, and it sent a sliver of ice cutting down his spine because they talked of monsters who never changed no matter how many centuries passed, and they talked of the taste of a human heart, and Gilbert was fascinated but so unnerved because this was _his grandfather_ they were talking about.

Yes, it was strange that his hair remained blonde and thick even though Gilbert's father was greying already (and Gilbert was born with white hair, he had to point out, just as an attempt to lighten up the mood), and that only the barest wrinkles marred his face despite his age, but it was impossible. Maybe for the General it was true: he was a legend and a myth and this would only be another tale to add to his mysterious persona, but not _his grandfather_ because-

Immortality.

What a strange crime to accuse someone of.

But the way the other soldiers whispered the word, the way they would peek over their shoulders before saying it, the way their nervous laughter tittered instead of boomed and echoed, made it sound like just that.

As if immortality was a disease.

* * *

 **Welcome to the story. This is my first, although technically speaking, I'm not the main writer of the story. Two of my sisters are taking advantage of this account because apparently, I'm wasting it (probably am), while my cousin is their editor. I am in charge of publishing it. But even though they told me they'd be the ones writing this story, for some reason, I was the one to write Chapter One. Hope you like it, and please leave a comment below.**


	2. Monsters

_**Immortality is a Disease**_

Monsters

Russian.

What a horrid language.

Strange alphabet, ridiculous pronunciation, stupid grammar…

Maybe she was biased.

But needless to doubt, Elizabeta Héderváry was sick and tired of Russian. It made sense – she wasn't Russian by a long stretch, but eight years of it had made her fluent enough. Russian had been part of the school curriculum ever since she was thirteen, one year after the Northern army had invaded Hungary and shot straight towards their heart.

Budapest.

A beautiful metropolitan that had stood proudly on the two sides of the Danube River: two regions long united into one majestic city.

Elizabeta was born and grew up in Pest, on the east side of the river, but perhaps her family should have crossed the bridge when rumour of Russian invasion came whispering. Their army had put up a good fight, and although Elizabeta had spent a month with her parents digging through the rubble of their small house, she was grateful for the efforts.

She vividly remembered the burning bridges, the strung up electrical wires that formed fences and walls on both sides of the Danube, and the marching soldiers down the street, lining up along the wall and preventing anyone from sneaking across. Then came the reconstruction, the purges, the cultural invasion. The first few years had been hectic, disconcerting, terrifying, but by the time she was eighteen, despite losing her father to the war at fifteen and then her mother to grief one year after, she felt the fire inside her calm—but it remained just as deadly, deadly enough that she had been eighteen when she first killed a man.

A typical Northern soldier, a lieutenant who had gone out drinking with his friends, and it had felt… good.

Better than good, in fact.

No one had known it was her, and no one would ever know, courtesy to the Rebels. In Hungarian they called themselves _'Az Embereknek'_ , which made sense, although it wasn't a particularly good or creative name.

 _For the people_ , they had made her vow at the bitter age of sixteen, and then they taught her to kill.

It was easier than one would have thought; a man thought he was so invincible, but there were a thousand spots on his body that could bring him to an end, whether it was instantly or slowly, and it was easy enough to pull the trigger or twist the knife or let slip a bit of poison that Elizabeta was almost… _good_ at it.

Of course, it wasn't anything to be proud of, but that didn't stop that drug-like twinge of satisfaction from coursing through her blood each time she slipped away unnoticed with no more evidence than the victim. She was fighting for her country, she would tell herself if she had ever looked back and wondered after her actions. For the people.

For _her_ people.

That was what had fuelled her. Years later, the fire had become smouldering coals, but those two simple words – _Az Embereknek_ – kept her iron will from breaking or bending. This was what glory tasted like: sweet and bitter and sour and wondrous all rolled into one. This was what a true hero would do, this was honour.

She just never thought that it'd be so quiet, so humble, so… ineffective.

The rebel groups supplied for her living, but it was at that moment, as she forced her suitcase up several flights of rickety stairs to a small flat in an indistinct, nameless Russian city, she realised just how endless, how aimless, how seemingly useless her mission was.

The doorknob nearly snapped under her vicious yanks, and she slammed the door hard enough to shake the entire building.

Sometimes, she just couldn't figure out what exactly she had done to feel like a thin piece of paper being tugged in two opposite directions. She didn't understand why she was being ripped into pieces.

* * *

He knew he should be pleased with a promotion, and it would be a lie to say that he wasn't. But the longer he walked with his grandfather, the less pride he was able to muster up to straighten his spine and lever his chin.

It wasn't as terrible as the stories he had heard of the Holocaust nearly a thousand years ago, but it was still ugly. There were no mass shootings, no gas chambers, no rows and rows of shrivelled corpses, yet he watched as two children shovelled at the frozen ground alongside several elderly citizens. He saw a man dragging a pile of logs with a baby strapped to his back. He noticed several old men and women with bent spines and gnarled hands slowly mixing some kind of mixture of mud and stones that was then taken by a boy not much older than eighteen, probably around the same age as him, who passed it to a crowd of younger children who began pasting the substance onto the walls of a gigantic structure that he knew was going either become another factory or a second dormitory building, which the people in the labour camp direly needed. Judging by the towering chimneys shooting from the top however, it was the former.

"Why don't they just use concrete?" he asked suddenly, interrupting his grandfather's lecture about the significance and different parts of a prison labour camp. "Wouldn't it be faster and easier and, well, better?"

His grandfather rolled his eyes. "The point isn't to make their lives easier, Gilbert."

He knew that, and he also knew that he was pushing the line, but he asked anyway, "So making old people and children work in the cold and build stuff that looks like something cavemen would make and could collapse any moment _is_?"

"No." There was a trace of irritation in the older man's voice, and Gilbert felt a twinge of a strange mixture between guilt and satisfaction. "The camps are created in the name of science."

"Science," he repeated slowly, eyeing the crude architecture and primal tools and methods. "Yeah, I can see that."

There was another exasperated sigh behind him, and he didn't need to look to know that his grandfather was scowling in his direction. But his voice was as unmoved and controlled as ever. "Follow me."

As they strolled through the camps, murmured conversations amongst the prisoners silenced. Old men turned their faces away, bones creaking as they laboured; young boys dared a glance but quickly looked away, small bodies trembling as they hurried on with their work. Gilbert felt sick, as if he could hear the thoughts of these suppressed people, accusing and disgusted. _'Monsters_.'

The silent voices nipped at his heels as he caught up with his grandfather, who marched on ahead without even looking at the prisoners to at least acknowledge their existence, as if they were too far below him to be considered more than a straying thought.

Simply to break the tense silent that spread in their wake, he decided to ask a question. "Is the camp separated by gender?"

But—that wasn't right, because there was an old woman toiling alongside a middle-age female. A little girl clung onto an older boy, watching with wide eyes as they passed. There were a few more here and there, but that was it. The proportion between men and women was probably eight to ten men to one of the opposite gender, and the thought sent a chill prickling up his spine.

"It is not," his grandfather answered curtly. _Then where are all the women?_ "Come here."

The dirt path beneath their feet was suddenly paved, albeit crudely, like a child's work. Although, judging by the occupants of the camp, it might as well have been. The road swiftly got wider and smoother, while the ragged prisoners and their cavemen structures were slowly abandoned and forgotten behind him as the buildings suddenly became shinier and evidently sturdier. People trickled between the buildings, but they were much better dressed in crisp suits and white coats, often with something in their hands that kept them occupied.

"Those aren't prisoners," Gilbert observed lamely.

"No, they are scientists."

"Scientists?" For one moment, an uncomfortable memory of a gruesome image Mister Laurinaitis had shown in one history class when lecturing about the previous two World Wars popped into mind. His opinion of scientists – especially in prison and labour camps – was not nice to say the least. "What for?"

There was a sudden glint in his grandfather's eyes as he surveyed his surroundings. "As I said before, the camps were created in the name of science. Inside those buildings, wondrous possibilities are being discovered to provide the best for the world."

He nodded slowly, hoping to God or whatever powerful entity that it wasn't what he thought it was. "Such as… new weapons and technology, right?"

His grandfather waved a dismissive hand. "Medicine, genetics, all of the sort."

Gilbert suddenly felt somewhat sick in the stomach. "Does this have to do with the lack of women in the camp? Because I'm really feeling bad for the men right now."

The older man paused before answering in a slow, uncertain tone. "Women… possess a key ingredient to one of the most invested experiment in the North."

Definitely nauseous now, Gilbert dared to ask. "What kind of experiment? What are you trying to do?"

"We're trying to achieve what humans have been craving for thousands of years. Soon, there will be no need for anyone to fear death."

"Some kind of super cure then?"

But his grandfather did not answer. And when he looked up at the older man's unlined face and long golden hair held back in a tight ponytail, not a single strand of gray visible, he felt something feeble and childish and hopeful flicker and die.

* * *

There was something wrong. There had always been something wrong with the world in this war, but in the North, it seemed… amplified. As if it was inside the people themselves, and when they opened their mouths it slithered out like some unseen parasite. It was in their voices, their laughter, their mixed emotions that merged into one sense of strange fear and terror.

She had been attracted to a bar from the sheer amount of negative energy that radiated from inside even though it was filled with boisterous and drunken cheer. She slumped down in a seat in the corner, opposite of a silent woman who clutched her cup close but did not drink. She ordered something light, but, like the woman, did not touch it. She was not interested in washing away reality with alcohol, and if the woman had not seemed so dejected, she would have thought that it was the case for her as well.

That was when a man sidled up to her, breath stinking with alcohol and face bright red in the stuffy heat. "Hey, beautiful," he slurred in an unclear Russian dialect. "Shouldn't you be home at this hour?"

Elizabeta scowled fiercely at him and shoved the invading hand away. "Where I am is none of your business."

"Please, back off," a soft voice that she did not recognize called, and the man's drunken grin slipped into a snarl that he directed towards the woman opposite who clenched her cup in a white-knuckled grip, but her light blue eyes were cold and steady. He looked to be on the verge of saying something, but under the intense glare of two women, he faltered, swallowed, and scurried away.

Elizabeta scoffed, unimpressed, after the man, but sudden shuffling movement across her drew her attention to the woman, who was gathering up her coat and purse to leave.

"He's right, you know," the woman murmured to her. "It's best not to stay out too late." Her Russian was slightly accented, but it didn't sound like a dialect. She was probably from another Northern ally or somewhere the North had annexed, like Hungary.

"Why not?" How late was 'late'? It was barely ten o'clock!

"There have been cases." The woman stood, but hovered around and did not leave just yet. "Kidnappings and disappearances, no one knows for sure. The police are investigating, but they haven't found anything yet."

"Kidnappings?"

"No one knows," the woman repeated, shaking her head slightly, short, pale blonde hair rippling with the movement. "You are new around here, yes? Everyone knows, there have been countryside raids and women are the main target for the disappearances." Her voice lost volume while she spoke until she was almost whispering, leaning forward as if sharing a terrible secret. "It is dangerous out at night, especially for women and girls. The gods are displeased with the war, and the people are suffering for it." Then, casting frightened looks around her, the woman hurried away.

Elizabeta was baffled. _The gods?_ The fact that religion was discouraged in the North made it all the more peculiar.

But she wasn't about to take any chances. She may be able to handle herself, but before she could investigate the disappearances in the North, she had a job to do. And it would certainly be very problematic if she disappeared before she could assassinate Wilhelm Beilschmidt.

* * *

 **Apologies if the author's voice tend to vary a lot. As I said before, three people are working on this, two of my sisters are working on this with me as a backup writer, so it might be kind of different. And we update very slowly, as you can probably already see. Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment below.**


	3. It Begins with a Murder

_**Immortality is a Disease**_

It Begins with a Murder

Despite being infamous for her temper and impulsiveness, Elizabeta made sure to spend several days poring over files that the rebel groups had offered her, along with more that had been smuggled to her dingy little apartment through various methods. It never ceased to amaze and unnerve her when she bumped into strangers on the street only to find documents slipped into her grocery bags, or when she finds scraps of paper hidden inside cartons of eggs and codes peeking into view from newspaper advertisements. It was moments like these when it struck her just how vastly spread the rebels were, wedging fingers into all the cracks.

But at the same time she couldn't help but feel extremely lonely. They were all pieces in a broken puzzle. Every slip of information she receives, every trigger she pulls, every bloodied knife and vial of poison was a fragment of a bigger picture no one knew looked like. They do their part of the job, they sit back and wait for the next cryptic message. It was depression, it was lonely, it was unfulfilling. Especially in this foreign Russian town.

She very suddenly and vividly yearned to return to Hungary. She may no longer have a home or family, but the loneliness was so much easier to ignore when you were speaking your mother tongue and strolling down familiar streets with familiar smells and sounds. And even though he might be dead, the man who had carefully lead her into the ranks of murderers and gently guided her hand to learn the mark of precision necessary for assassination had helped her grow accustomed to the hidden thieves and thugs roaming the streets of Pest with the vow of _'Az Embereknek'_ tucked beneath their tongues.

The winter was bitterly cold, but it felt even more unbearable when she was this far from home. Something was wrong with this place. It wasn't the first time Elizabeta had travelled and stayed in other places for a mission. It wasn't her first time in Russia either. It was some animalistic instinct that told her that something was going to happen soon and she didn't want to be there when it does.

She thumbed through the files for probably the twentieth time. The military and government was quite luxurious despite the ravaging war. An extravagant party was being thrown on the night of December 31th to greet the coming of 2862, and it will be filled to the brim with preening politicians and haughty soldiers. There will be other people too: servants, no doubt, and musicians and entertainers of every kind.

Elizabeta glanced at the clock: 5:14.

She took a deep breath and put down the file and stood up. Then she began to prepare.

General Wilhelm Beilschmidt dies tonight.

* * *

Nearly twelve years into war with half the population starving through the winter and the government was still throwing parties complete with champagne, prostitutes, and fireworks.

Gilbert viewed it all incredulously: the sparkling fountain of wine, the rows of extravagant and elegant plates filled with foods whose names he had never heard of before and couldn't dream of pronouncing, the clusters women donning glittering gowns and jewels, the men in their suits and uniforms with hands that roamed the bodies of scantily dressed girls—most of them seemingly the same age or younger than him. He viewed all this from the side, part of the party with a glass of champagne in one hand and his plate in the other, but also noticeably detached.

He stood by a thick, golden pillar in the ballroom of a palace built in the middle of nowhere. It was not an actual palace with history and culture, but an imitation, which gives the entire place an artificial vibe that Gilbert did not like. He didn't like the stuffy air inside the ballroom either, but was unwilling to step out into the Russian winter, so here he was, stuck next to a pillar that stood close to the windows, wondering if he would cause a scandal if he decided to open one of them to let the air flow. Maybe a crack. A little breeze would be enough to save his sanity.

Just as he was inching towards the window, however, a powerful figure cut its way through and detached from the clutters of mingling high-classed individuals, making his way towards Gilbert. Wilhelm Beilschmidt was impressive even in his old age, standing half a head taller than most people in the room and—despite his status—held on tightly to the rugged handsomeness of his youth. Sometimes, moments like these especially, when the difference of power between them seemed particularly great, Gilbert could barely believe that the two of them were related.

There was a slender figure tucked beside the General, a brunette girl with a pretty but insignificant face and dark green eyes. Green like the depths of a forest, beasts lurking in the shadows.

"Gilbert" General Beilschmidt greeted, his voice filled with a cheer that indicated that he was either in an uncharacteristically good mood or drunk. Probably the latter.

"Sir!" Gilbert saluted. The girl beside his grandfather appraised him with those intensely dark eyes, sniffed, and turned back to the general with a breathless giggle.

"How are you enjoying the party?" The General did not bother to introduce the prostitute in his arms. "It's your first, isn't it?"

"Yes," replied Gilbert. "It's very…" He paused, not too sure how to describe the party without sounding sarcastic or obvious. "The food is delicious," he amended, realising only a moment later that it was an even lamer compliment than what he formerly had in mind.

"Of course it is." His grandfather was unfazed. "The skills of the best chefs in the world, just for us."

"Right." Gilbert nodded, then said, "There are not many officers of my rank around." None, as a matter of fact. He seemed to be the only military officer below the rank of Colonel.

"That's to be expected." Gilbert watched as the older man's hand trailed from the shoulder of the girl down her arm, then circled around her narrow waist. She was watching him from the corner of her eye, giving the General very little of the attention he thought he held fully. "The only reason you are here is because you are my grandson."

The prostitute uttered a small gasp. "Grandson?!"

"Yes, _moy tsvetochek_. Striking resemblance, isn't it?"

Gilbert forced a smile.

"General Beilschmidt!" an unfamiliar voice called from the edge of the main crowd, and Gilbert was able to escape from the conversation as his grandfather was pulled into another one. He was finally able to open the window a crack, letting in a small, cold draft that left goose bumps prickling his skin but his mind calmer and much more comfortable.

He spent the countdown and watched the fireworks shivering lightly by the window, and when a few people began to trickle away from the party, Gilbert was one of the first to leave.

He did not bother to notify his grandfather that he was leaving or bade him farewell, but the prostitute still clinging to the General watched him go with wide, dark green eyes and a coy yet frightening smile.

* * *

General Wilhelm Beilschmidt was born in 2788 and should be around his mid-seventies. He had two sons, one of which died in a car crash in 2828 while the other gave him two grandsons. Both were in the military, one was at the party, and if Elizabeta hadn't practically memorised the man's file she wouldn't have ever suspected that the General was a day over forty.

 _All too well_ , she thought however as she threaded her fingers through those golden locks of hair to pull him down and deepen the kiss. It made her job easier.

He forced her against the wall, his hand crawling up her skirt. She tugged on his military coat, frantically undoing the buttons and dropping it onto the floor before working on the white starched shirt inside. They broke the kiss momentarily so that she could rip off her dress, almost glad to be free of it despite the situation, left in her underclothes, and Beilschmidt took the chance also to carefully take off his shirt. His body was toned and well-defined, so unlike the bloated and withered bodies of most men his age and rank. She flung herself at him, and they tumbled onto the bed.

 _What a terrible life to lead._ Passionless, just hunger and lust and emptiness.

The General unhooked her bra, tossing it to the side as his mouth began to trail cold, almost painful kisses down her neck, tracing her collarbone and shoulder and down the smooth plane of her stomach. She arched her back, making the sounds men liked to hear, felt herself shuddering in disgust underneath the invading hands and lips on her body.

But this was a chance, when the General was focusing somewhere else, her tongue dislodged a tiny capsule that she had stuck between her teeth. Carefully she took it in her hand, crushing the protective plastic layer with her fingertips and spreading the white powder inside onto her hands.

"General…" she whispered as the man positioned himself over her. She stared into those icy blue eyes while her hands cupped his ruggedly handsome face and trailed down his neck, rubbing his shoulder and arm and clawing marks onto his back as he pleasured himself with her.

Pain. It was painful what she had to do to be useful for the good side. It was a pain that ebbed and surged with each act she committed, and it was times like these when she had to remind herself that sacrifices had to made and this was only a small thing if it could pave an inch of the way towards what _Az Embereknek_ was constantly fighting for.

The breath was knocked out of her when the General collapsed on top of her, breathing hard. He wasn't looking at her, the silence was suddenly deafening, and the man simply rolled over and his breathing began to even out.

Elizabeta laid there, staring up into the darkness. She waited for ten minutes after the General fell asleep, then slowly slid out of the bed and into the bathroom, where, with a generous amount of soap, she scrubbed at her hands until her skin felt thin and raw. As she made her way back to the bed, her foot nudged against something. It was a sac, a computer bag that the General had unceremoniously dumped onto the ground when they had entered the room, kissing and biting and scratching like feral animals.

The General's breathing was steady, at ease, and as quietly as she could, Elizabeta retrieved her own bag, pulling out a device resembling a flash drive. When she plugged it into the General's computer, a little red light blipped into existence, blinking at her as the device began to copy everything inside. The moment the light blinked blue, she yanked out the device, slid the computer back into the bag, and gently replaced everything in their original positions.

Then, she carefully lowered herself back beside the General and closed her eyes. Sleep did not come easily at the dawn of murder.

When she woke abruptly it was still early morning, but the bed was cold and empty. Elizabeta dressed, packed, and left the palace behind for the small, southern Russian town where she would—once again—await further commands sent by ghosts.

* * *

It was two days after the New Year's and Gilbert was trapped in a small, enclosed space known as an office and was sorting torturously slowly through some files containing statistics on the people being transferred into and out of the camp he was situated at. Looking through the numbers however, he couldn't help but notice how the actual population of the camp was so much lower than the estimated population despite the addition of the new group that had arrived a few days before the New Years.

The realisation that people were dying in this camp, right outside this building, disturbed him. There was something horrific about the silence that had permeated so completely through the camp that the clamour of labour was unable to hide it.

Gilbert had spent around ten months on the battlefield after his training and before he had been pulled out by his grandfather's request. He had thought that the endless gunfire and death had been bad enough, but there were moments of madness while he patrolled the labour camp and observed the work of both scientists and prisoners when he wished that he was still out there in the trenches because somehow this was worse. The empty-eyed children and bony elders and broken people that surrounded him in this place terrified him more than anything.

The paperwork was just one more thing he was willing to complain about, and he was almost relieved when there was a knock on his door.

"Come in." He threw down his pen and looked up expectantly as a young soldier stepped into his office and saluted.

"Captain!"

"Lieutenant," he acknowledged lazily. "What is it?"

"There is a message for you, sir."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"It's just—," the soldier swallowed, strangely nervous with the message he had been told to report. "General Wilhelm Beilschmidt is dead."

For a moment, Gilbert could not breathe. _Dead?_ He had not realised—

"How. When."

"He—He collapsed at a conference yesterday morning. By the time they got him to a medical facility he was already dead. Murdered," the Lieutenant clarified. "They believe that it is poison, traces were found in his blood, but we were unable to find a murderer."

Gilbert shot to his feet. His hands shook lightly when his fingers dug into his scalp; he paced unconsciously, his breath rattling in his chest.

He had not realised that it was _possible_.

"Sir," the soldier sounded alarmed. And pitying. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Gilbert did not need pitying.

"Get out," he ground out. His breathing was uneven but his voice was steady.

"Yes sir." The soldier saluted once more and disappeared from his office. The door clicked shut.

Gilbert resumed his pacing, his paperwork forgotten. He had not known. It was because of his grandfather's unmarred youth, he was sure. Or perhaps simply how the man had always seemed to be there.

He had known that it was impossible, but had still somehow believed it. It was that stupid legend that once he had scoffed at but now realised that he secretly believed. Now, he scoffed again.

Immortality.

As if there was such thing in the world.

This was why they needed the reminders.

Mortality always struck at the most perfect moments.

* * *

The message came the next week, in the form of a note slipped into a bag while she was shopping for breakfast and a bit of groceries. It was, in fact, her receipt, and she would have missed the words scrawled onto the back if it hadn't been in her habit to check the receipt with the products she brought home.

The message was disappointing, but expected. There were only two words, a name.

The name made her raise an eyebrow. She knew the man, had seen snippets of mentions of him in the files that she had copied from the General's computer. It was strange. The man was no general, although still relatively high in ranking. He was a good soldier, a model one in fact, but to her that was the same as a model student at school. It felt insignificant, not something she felt she should be wary of or wasting her time on.

The answer came two days later by a coded e-mail. The message after translation was short and simple, but it explained everything and sent a thrill through Elizabeta.

Generalissimo Zimavich, better known to the rest of the world as Generalissimo Winter, was a legend. No one really knew his true identity or even his appearance. There were no files or documents on him and literally the only information anyone had on him was that he was the Generalissimo and his name was Zimavich.

But somehow, it had been confirmed. Her next target was a relative of Generalissimo Winter.

His name was Ivan Braginsky.

* * *

 **So, yes, we are terribly slow in updating. We'll... try better. At this pace this story will take us thirty years to write. We would appreciate Reviews, they tend to motivate us, so since we're trying, won't you try too?**


	4. The Killer and her Stepping Stone

_**Immortality is a Disease**_

 **The Killer and her Stepping Stone**

The thing about Major Ivan Braginsky that made him so difficult to kill was that he was a _terribly_ boring person.

Elizabeta had opened the file to find a completely unfamiliar face, despite it being clear that Braginsky had been invited to the New Year's party. His rank suggested that General Beilschmidt would probably have greeted him sometime during the fest, and Elizabeta prided herself in her ability to remember faces, but apparently, he had turned down the invitation.

Honestly.

Apart from his complete lack of love for fun, he had no wife or any relationship past his known family of Generalissimo Winter—of whom there were no information whatsoever—and his half-sister. The only exciting piece of information was that his hometown was the exact town she was staying. What did not help was that he only came back every four months, and stayed for less than a week before returning to whatever army base he was serving in.

His dedication to the army was astounding, and frustrating.

However, it only took two days to gather information on Irunya Chernenko; the file was in her hands by the third morning. It was a simply file, yet awfully detailed, but there were two pieces of information in particular that stood out.

One was the name of a bar that Irunya Chernenko frequented every Sunday night.

The second was her photograph.

* * *

Elizabeta waited in The Far West, a small, clean place that was preferred amongst more controlled and respectable bar-goers. She ordered the same light drink and sat in the same corner as the last time she had been here, by a little round table with two armchairs on each side. She nursed the drink, taking burning, relieving sips once in a while, but only enough to help her relax, settle down, and wait.

She kept an eye on the clock. Irunya was late today. When a blonde-haired woman entered silently, a ghost slipping through the door and around the cheering drunkards and brooding drinkers, it was over a quarter past nine, and Elizabeta had been sitting past half an hour, drawing attention to her corner with her constant glances and barely-touched drink. More than one man had approached her already, but a fierce stare was enough to drive them and keep others away.

Irunya collected a glass of some kind of vodka, turned, but faltered when she saw Elizabeta sitting on her usual chair. Then, she continued towards the corner and sat down carefully on the second armchair, opposite of where she usually sat—and Elizabeta. She set her cup down slowly and cautiously, as if afraid to make a sound. For several minutes, the two women were silent, minding their own businesses, letting their surroundings fade into a buzzing background.

Elizabeta could guess what Irunya was thinking. She couldn't be too sure, but there was the likelihood that it involved a Western soldier who had sat in this exact spot five years ago. He had been a spy, a quiet, near-invisible Canadian man who spoke several languages to perfection, Russian included, and had been sent here three years into the war. He had lasted for a fairly long time, accomplished enough for Elizabeta to be thoroughly impressed by him. He had a courage beneath his gentle disposition—so rare among Northern men—which must have attracted Irunya when they had met in this bar. His final mistake was making her acquaintance. Her mistake was falling in love. Less than a year later, Irunya's half-brother himself put a bullet in the man's head, shattered Irunya's heart, and stranded her in the loop of wandering back to this place every week.

Elizabeta sat back in her chair and took another sip of her drink. She mentally went through Irunya's file again while the woman picked up her own drink but merely cradled it in her hand. This was clearly a woman who had seen too much in too little time, and everything she had seen was noted down in that file.

The problem with the North was that the memories you made were rarely your own.

"Um, hello."

Elizabeta looked up from her drink to see Irunya peeking at her shyly through a thick curtain of pale lashes. She offered a small smile. "Hello."

"You were here two weeks ago, weren't you?" Elizabeta's smile seemed to relieve the tension in Irunya's body, and she became a softer, kinder version of the woman who had stared down a man and warned Elizabeta of the night the first time they had met.

"Yes. You helped me get rid of a flirter. Thank you for that, by the way."

"No, it's nothing." A pale pink dusted Irunya's round cheeks. She began fiddling with the hem of her shirt. "You were doing fine yourself. He was just annoying, so…"

"Either way, thank you." Elizabeta kept her voice warm. She gave a survey around the bar and inquired, "Do you come here often?" _Every Sunday, nine o'clock._

"Yes, it's a relatively nice place compared to some others around here. Cleaner, and the drinks aren't half bad." Except Irunya hadn't even touched her drink. She spent most of her time in the bar just sitting there, reminiscing a time when she had sat across a different kind of soldier from a different kind of army.

Elizabeta gave a tiny sound of agreement and sipped at her drink again. A comfortable silence draped over the corner where the two women sat, each in their own thoughts, but both thinking of the same man. While Irunya remembered the Western soldier, Elizabeta imagined that he was like the soft-spoken woman, all gentle slopes and lovely shades of white. He probably had the same timid voice that masked a certain kind of quiet strength. Sometimes opposites attract; sometimes the contrary. The only problem with love between those who are the same was that they balanced so perfectly and completely that when one becomes lost, the other will never find stasis again.

At that moment, Elizabeta couldn't help but pity the other woman; Irunya was very likable. But often times it were these too-kind people who receive the most scars.

Elizabeta made a show of checking the time, picked up her coat and abandoned her drink. She smiled again at Irunya as she stood. "Well then, it was nice meeting you again, Miss…?"

"Chernenko. Irunya Chernenko." Irunya stood as well, offering a hand. Elizabeta took it, noting the firm grip and calloused fingers.

"Eva Novák."

"Hungarian?"

"Slovakian." Elizabeta lied. She had been to Slovakia once and spoke Slovakian. Barely.

"Well, nice to meet you too, Miss Novák."

They shook their hands, and parted with a brighter air.

* * *

Elizabeta visited The Far West Wednesday afternoon to avoid suspicion about her seemingly coincidental meetings with Irunya, just in case she was being watched.

On Saturday, after dining in a restaurant, she returned home to find a note in her coat pocket. It was unsigned, the handwriting was foreign, but the content of the message was enough to tell her who it was from.

Ivan Braginsky was going on leave in one and a half weeks. He will most likely be returning to his hometown to visit his sister. Elizabeta grimaced. She would have to pick up the pace.

The next day, Sunday, she entered The Far West at twenty past nine, later than Irunya.

The same drink, the same corner. She plopped down across of Irunya with a smile, which the other woman returned.

They began chatting about trifling matters. Irunya's file said that she was a kindergarten teacher in a local public school, but it was from Irunya herself that Elizabeta learned that she taught music and art and sometimes dancing. Elizabeta knew that she had a Russian mother and a Ukrainian father, but Irunya told her that she had not seen her father since she was eight and had only visited Ukraine twice even though Ukrainian remained her first language.

On the other hand, Elizabeta spun a tale about how she had taught Russian at a primary school in Slovakia, but, wanting a change of scenery, had moved to this town. She was currently still searching for a job, and Irunya was delighted, stating that perhaps she could help Elizabeta ask around in her school and circle of teachers. Mildly uncomfortable, Elizabeta could only smile gratefully and sip at her drink. She told Irunya about her parents, both of whom were still thriving in Slovakia, and of her imaginary little brother Dávid, who was still finishing high school and thinking of enlisting in the army.

At that point, Irunya happily announced that she also had a brother, named Ivan, although they only shared a mother and he had a Russian father. He was in the army already—quite a high ranking despite his young age too!—and he was coming back to visit in about a week.

"That's exciting," Elizabeta commented.

"It is," Irunya agreed. "He rarely comes back. Perhaps I can introduce you to him?"

"I wouldn't mind." The two women shared a small grin, although Irunya's was a tad mischievous. Elizabeta wondered what the other woman was thinking about.

Although it did not matter much. What she needed had already been accomplished. The conversation carried on, and although Elizabeta met it with the same enthusiasm, there was less conviction.

This time, it was Irunya who checked the time. It was just past ten, but she said, "It's getting late. We should be going."

"It's hardly late," Elizabeta remarked. "Nobody else is leaving."

Irunya seemed suddenly anxious, wringing her hands and crushing her coat and purse to her chest. "They don't understand the risks of the night. It is best not for us to stray out too late."

"Last time you told me there were kidnappings?" Elizabeta also gathered her things and began to follow the other woman out of the bar.

"Disappearances," confirmed Irunya. "Strange cases. Women vanishing from the streets, their companions killed. They are being investigated, but according to Ivan, they do not have enough leads. It is a frustrating and frightening mystery."

"I see." It is a problem, but not hers to concern herself over. "Is it common?"

"It has been happening all over the country. Not in high rates, but enough for it to become a worry."

The unforgiving Russian winter felt like a slap in the face after the warmth and cosiness of their little corner in the bar, but while Elizabeta snuggled deeper into her coat, Irunya was just throwing hers over her shoulders.

"Thank you for bearing with me tonight." Irunya smiled somewhat shyly. "It is nice to have someone to talk to."

"Thank you as well," Elizabeta replied graciously. "It was my pleasure."

"I'll see what I can do about your job."

"I am grateful." She truly was. Even though she didn't actually need the job as she was being supplied by the rebel groups, Irunya's pure and kind intentions were enough to make Elizabeta appreciate the woman before her, even if she was using her to get to her brother.

"Have a safe trip home," Irunya bade her farewell.

Elizabeta gave a quick wave before stuffing her numbed fingers back into her warm pocket. "You too. Safe journey."

They parted ways, the killer and her stepping stone.

* * *

The next Sunday, they met again. Irunya was brimming with excitement, and the moment both of them were seated with liquor on the table Elizabeta was overwhelmed with the sheer amount of good news Irunya had decided to bring to this meeting.

Apparently, she had found several job opportunities for Elizabeta, and promptly handed her a list of school names and everything one might need to know about each of them and what they were looking for in teachers. Elizabeta was nothing short of amazed.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" she couldn't help but tease. "Or are you simply so dedicated to me?"

Irunya had flushed, but was beaming at the same time, clearly proud of herself. "It really isn't much. Just what I've managed to ruffle up in my spare time."

"Then you must have quite a lot of spare time." Elizabeta shuffled through the three pages, each packed full with words. It was nearly as impressive as the files from the rebel groups.

"Well." Irunya shrugged. "It's not like I have any papers to grade."

The two shared a quick laugh, and then Irunya decided to address the next piece of news she had.

"I told Ivan that I would like to introduce to him a friend—,"

Elizabeta's heartbeat quickened at the mention of Irunya's half-brother, but she also beamed, inexplicably happy that Irunya had called her a friend. There was just something about the Ukrainian woman that made it seem like a huge honour and accomplishment.

"—and he said that he was very excited to meet you. He's arriving Thursday afternoon, so maybe on Friday we can go out together to grab dinner?"

Elizabeta voiced her consent, and Irunya began to tell her about her plan for that evening while Elizabeta took notes on her phone.

Dinner was going to be at a restaurant named The Cossack Dance—probably the most Russian thing Elizabeta had heard since her arrival—but Irunya proposed that they meet up at The Far West before heading there together. Elizabeta was grateful: that way, she didn't have to go seek out this restaurant herself.

"It works for me," Elizabeta informed Irunya, and so it was settled. She had dragged out this mission for far too long. She missed Hungary.

It was time for Ivan Braginsky to die.

* * *

Elizabeta wasn't sure what to expect on Friday evening.

She had dressed nicely for the occasion—or as nice as she could with her minimal amount of outfits since she hadn't thought when she packed that she would be going on a dinner outing. She also hadn't thought that she'd be staying for nearly two months and couldn't help but think that she would be very grateful once this was all over and she could leave this god-forsaken place.

She was also running late, so if she had to be honest, she didn't care that much about how well she dressed, considering how her hair had already been blown into wild disarray and her coat was awry from when she hastily wrapped it around her before hurrying out of her apartment.

The Far West was a twenty minute walk from her home. If she ran, she might be able to make it in seven—except it wouldn't matter how quickly she could get there; she had been late even before she set foot out into the bitter cold.

When she arrived, huffing and panting and loosening her scarf, no doubt looking like a mess, there were two people poised outside the bar, chatting amiably. Irunya was the first to notice Elizabeta, cutting their conversation short with a cheerful wave. Her brother finished his sentence and turned around just as Elizabeta reached them, breathing heavily and gasping apologies, all of which Irunya was happy to dismiss and accept.

She was clearly in a good mood, a fact that struck Elizabeta somewhat oddly. All three present knew who had killed the Western soldier, yet Elizabeta seemed to be the only one who remembered that such a thing had happened.

Except she wasn't supposed to know, which was why she hid all her thoughts and feelings behind a mask of foreign pleasantness as she turned to greet Irunya's brother.

Ivan Braginsky was disarmingly tall. He towered over the two women, his wide stature casting both of them in shadow; Elizabeta had to tip back her head and back up two steps to face him properly. His visage was already familiar to her from all the time she had spent studying his file—she had practically memorized the prominent nose and child-like roundness to his features—but there was still something vastly different about it when she finally met him in person. It was softer perhaps, now that he was out of his army uniform, but the smile that curved his lips sent a chill skittering up her spine.

She offered a hand and a tight smile. "Eva Novák."

"Ivan Braginsky." Ivan's hand nearly completely engulfed Elizabeta's. She briefly wondered how much poison it might take to kill such a man, but then quickly pushed the thought away. Thoughts were dangerous at the wrong times; they showed up in tiny hints across your face, flickers of darkness in your eyes, a nervous twitch to your smile—these were the things that give you away, and Elizabeta had no intention of being caught like the last spy who had befriended Irunya Chernenko. "You are Hungarian?"

"Slovakian," she corrected smoothly, in a manner that suggested that she was well-used to this kind of mistake.

Ivan nodded his understanding, inclining his head to Elizabeta as an apology, and then suggested, "Shall we get going? Best not to stay out in the cold too long, and the dark will be coming in soon."

He had a peculiar way of talking, not just because his voice had a childish, almost saccharine tone to it, but also the way he pieced his sentences: oddly formal yet still not, not exactly militaristic, not exactly structured, not exactly normal.

"Yes," Irunya agreed. "Let's go."

The sun had begun to set.

* * *

 **This was originally a much longer chapter (which is still not finished), but in our attempt to update a bit faster, we decided to cut it off here. The rest will simply have to be Chapter Five, where hopefully, Ivan Braginsky dies. Regardless, thank you for reading and please Review.**


	5. The Winter Remembers

_**Immortality is a Disease**_

 **The Winter Remembers**

As uninteresting as his file had been, Ivan Braginsky proved to be a rather pleasant dinner companion. The first impression he gave others was the thought that he was terrifying and no doubt dangerous, but as the night spurred on outside the cosy hearth of the Cossack Dance, Elizabeta found herself relaxing and almost enjoying herself—a realisation that horrified her.

It was true that he had no life outside the army. Irunya had asked him if the army had hosted the annual New Year's celebration and he had confirmed it, but then explained that since last year's was dreadfully dull, he had decided to turn down the invitation this time. Apparently because he had been working while everyone else had been let off for the New Year, he was given a particularly long period of leave: nearly a month. It was a fact that he was clearly unhappy about, even though Irunya had seemed overjoyed.

What Ivan did have was a very strange sense of humour, which was probably the most entertaining thing Elizabeta had heard in a long time. It had shown itself when they began discussing the disappearances that plagued the night.

"You are new around here, right?" Ivan had asked Elizabeta once they had procured a seat in the Cossack Dance. "Don't come out at night."

"Yes, Irunya told me. There have been cases." A waiter approached and handed out glasses of water and a few menus.

"I'm glad you know. It's for your own good, of course."

"Of course," Elizabeta had echoed. "Though I'm afraid I don't completely understand. Is it really such a huge issue?"

"It might be," Ivan replied. "No one understands what exactly is happening with these cases. There have been numerous fruitless investigations. It is a curious thing, these disappearances."

"And it is always young women who disappear?"

He shrugged. "Women in general, really. Young boys too, though much rarer. And a few dogs."

"Dogs?" Both Irunya and Elizabeta repeated incredulously, just as the waiter returned to ask them if they were ready to order. They placed their orders, and then Ivan replied with another shrug of his strong shoulders,

"Yes, dogs. Though these disappearances are probably just greedy people wanting compensation from the government after they've eaten their own dog."

Elizabeta had raised an eyebrow, slightly confused while Irunya had, aghast, exclaimed, "Ivan! Don't say things like that; it's awful!"

"But Irunya," Ivan turned an innocent expression to his older sister, "It's true. Dog meat is considered a delicacy in the East. They value their cannibalism very much."

And perhaps it was the way he had said it: all childlike bewilderment and polite implications of insults, or maybe it was the sheer randomness of it all—this conversation had certainly taken a wild turn—but Elizabeta snorted into her cup of water while Irunya chided exasperatedly, "The East are our allies, Ivan. You know that."

"Sure." Ivan was rather nonchalant about it all. "Doesn't mean they're not weird. And it's not like they do much. They'd rather have business with the West than wage war with them. We are only barely allies."

And so on and so forth. It was not so much a sense of humour than barely concealed insults which amused Elizabeta but embarrassed Irunya.

"Ivan," Irunya had practically begged after a particularly cruel comment about New Zealand's landmass—or lack thereof, " _please_ , you're making a bad impression on our guest."

Ivan glanced at Elizabeta, who was trying very hard not to burst out in undignified laughter by pinching her lips together and pretending to take a very long sip from her cup. "Well, yes, she does look rather insulted, doesn't she?"

"Oh yes," Elizabeta choked down her mirth, though she couldn't keep down the slight tremble from her voice, "I am _most_ displeased with your brother's behaviour, Miss Chernenko."

Irunya pursed her lips, clearly the only one displeased at their table, while Elizabeta and Ivan shared a quick smile.

But once again, there was something about the tilt of Ivan's lips, something more sharp than amused, that sent a skitter of cold down her spine; the iron grip of laughter loosened, and she felt suddenly sick as she remembered why she was here. The realisation that she had almost been charmed by this soulless creature made her want to stab herself. Irunya's unhappiness with Ivan's 'jokes' suddenly made sense.

"Either way," she said with a light cough, turning the conversation back to the beginning before they became immersed in messed up political and environmental issues, "Can you tell me more about the disappearances? I can't say that I'm not curious."

Ivan nodded at the waitress as she handed each of them the plate that they ordered before saying, "There really isn't much to know. We think it might be connected to the raids in the countryside—"

"Raids?" Irunya repeated rather shrilly. "You never told me about raids!"

"It's not that important," her younger brother disregarded the matter. "It's not like we live in the countryside."

"Well it's not like we live in the cities either," Irunya pointed out, though it seemed rather inconsequential to Elizabeta.

Ivan seemed to think the same. "As I said, it's not that important. There have been raids in the countryside, mainly just farms and small towns in the middle of Siberia. There is nothing to worry about."

"What did the raiders want though?" Elizabeta asked, genuinely curious.

Now, Ivan looked suddenly troubled. He set down his spoon, wiping his mouth and then putting down his napkin gently. "It's rather problematic, to be honest. Families dead in their beds, young women and children all but vanished, dragged off by the raiders, no doubt. It's a huge mess, yet we've got no idea who the attackers are. The investigations are going nowhere. It's like our people are being slaughtered by ghosts."

Elizabeta shuddered unconsciously. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. "Why would anyone want all those women and children? What do they have?"

Something flickered in Ivan's eyes, something that was almost like guilt—but why would he be feeling guilt right now when his file had described how he had interrogated and tortured innocent people with a constant smile? Ivan was an accomplished liar, Elizabeta realised, but he was hiding something so huge and terrible that even he could not stand the thought of it.

When Ivan picked up his spoon and began to dig into his soup again, Elizabeta thought that he wasn't going to answer her question. But then after a few bites, he said suddenly in a low voice, "Youth."

"What?" She blinked.

Ivan's posture was agitated, all of a sudden no longer proud, almost ashamed, almost afraid. His voice, childlike yet cold, was troubled. "They have youth."

And somehow, it was the most important thing in the world.

* * *

Three and a half weeks were a long time.

In the first few days, Elizabeta picked up a job at a primary school not far away, teaching maths. It was dull, and simply speaking, pointless, considering that she was not going to stay for that much longer—only until Ivan Braginsky was dead—and if things went according to plan, that would fall short of just one month.

And everything was indeed going according to plan.

Elizabeta saw Irunya and Ivan practically every night since the first. They would sit for dinner, or at the bar, chatting away. Irunya was pleased when Elizabeta announced that she had decided on and had found a job, and Ivan was curious enough to inquire further. She told them the school she had chosen and what she would be teaching, and both—strangely enough—seemed absolutely delighted.

"My old school," Ivan explained.

" _Our_ old school," Irunya corrected, beaming.

A few days later, after a long day of school, Elizabeta emerged from the school gates to find Ivan Braginsky waiting for her, his strange smile all the while present.

"Nothing better to do?" she couldn't help but tease.

Ivan just shrugged. "Preschool lets off a bit later," he explained, "so I thought I'd pick you up first."

"You didn't have to." Elizabeta wasn't sure how to feel. Normally, when a man volunteers to pick you up and walk you home, you would be flattered. But Ivan Braginsky was far from a normal man, so she couldn't help but be slightly revolted.

"I wanted to." He shrugged again. "And as you said, I have got nothing better to do."

It seemed to be true. After the first night, Ivan seemed to have become listless, as if without his army duties, he didn't know how to keep living.

She glanced at her watch. It was just over two o'clock. "When _does_ Irunya get off anyway?"

"Around five to six." That was hardly _'a bit'_ later!

"Well, since you've got nothing better to do…" Elizabeta was hesitant. It was part of the plan—luring her victim as close as she could—but something just didn't feel right. Then again, nothing ever did when the only reason you were getting close to somebody was to kill them. "Would you like to go for some tea?"

Ivan blinked, looking almost confused.

"To pass the time, you know," Elizabeta elaborated somewhat hastily. "Since we've both got so much of it."

A different smile stretched over his lips. This one was pleasantly surprised, genuinely happy, and it gave an impression of normalcy instead of lunacy. "I would be honoured."

After that, Elizabeta would find Ivan waiting for her every afternoon, and it became a ritual to head to the nearest café, where they would sit down, him with a hot chocolate, her with a cup of strong mocha, and they would either chat about simple things, or they would grade some papers together. Ivan seemed to find it amusing, seeing children add incorrectly, while Elizabeta had only ever been exasperated and annoyed by children. He liked to draw little pictures at the bottom of the papers or add random comments, Elizabeta's red pen thin and fragile in his large, gloved hand.

At around three or four they would part, her back to her apartment, him to somewhere else before seeking out his older sister, and then at around six or seven, all three of them would have dinner, sometimes separately, more often together.

It was pleasant, Elizabeta had to admit. She did not like the North in any way, but _this_ , this little world constructed out of the three of them, really was nice. If only Irunya did not have demons, Ivan was not the cause of these demons, and Elizabeta was not the slayer of demons, then it might have been perfect.

Three and a half weeks were a long time in those lazing afternoons and laughter-filled evenings.

But it had gone by so quickly when they were in the bar on the night before Ivan was to return to the army.

It was not the Far West, but a dirtier, rougher, more crowded place whose alcohol was incredibly strong. It was also more of a nightclub than a bar, with rowdy music and crazy drunkards trying to dance but spending more time stumbling and falling over.

Irunya, especially, was falling over quite a lot.

She had started off the evening in a rather subdued mood, no doubt upset that Ivan was so eager to leave. She had picked through dinner, not even bothering to pretend to be happy, and continued to fret either quietly or worriedly until they managed to stuff a strong cup of vodka into her hands.

Elizabeta, on the other hand, spent the night high-strung and tense. This was a first. She had never taken so long to kill one person, had never gotten so close just to carve out somebody's life. It unnerved her, it made her uncomfortable. She didn't exactly _like_ Ivan, per se; he was still somewhat morbid and unusual at times, but it had only gotten more and more difficult to _hate_ him while they were chatting over coffee and graded papers or laughing over the dinner table.

There was a hard knot in her stomach, and her nervousness did not go unnoticed by Ivan, although he interpreted it quite differently.

"You are going to miss me, I assume?" He was clearly amused.

Thankfully, Irunya was the one who decided to answer. "When are you coming back?" She sounded anxious and worried, which Ivan shrugged off.

"Don't worry, dear sister. I won't be long. It's not like the base is so far away; you can come visit _me_ , if you like."

"Yes, but there's no _time_." Irunya checked the clock. "Are you sure you've gotten everything? What about lunch? Are you spending lunch on the train? Should I make you something?"

"Have another vodka," Ivan suggested while Elizabeta offered the other woman her untouched drink, which she was feeling too sick for. Irunya accepted it graciously, then gulped it down with much less grace. Ivan was delighted. He called for more, they saluted each other, and they drank.

Both Irunya and Ivan were surprisingly weak drinkers. Barely two hours after they'd sat down in the bar and Irunya had already joined the throngs of graceless, drunken dancers.

Drunken Ivan, on the other hand, was a complete, stubborn _child_. He would pout when Elizabeta suggested that he stopped drinking so heavily (he had finished his second bottle and was starting on a third), and then he would drink even more heavily out of spite.

It was all very well though. The more intoxicated he was, the less likely he would be of noticing the fact that she was still on her second cup and couldn't seem to be ready to down it. Ivan Braginsky, however, was still a male, so even if he didn't notice her tenseness, he would notice how she leaned closer towards him as the night carried on; he would notice how their knees bumped together, how their breaths began to mingle, how their hands brushed as if the thick black glove Ivan never seemed to take off was nonexistent. She just wished that each little bit of intimacy they shared did not send the same icy spike through him as it did through her.

Ivan finished his third bottle. He was about to raise it over his head to signal the barkeeper for another, but Elizabeta quickly reached for it.

"Here," she said quietly, "let me take that."

Their fingers overlapped, and Ivan stiffened, his grip tightening while she gently pried the bottle away from him. She looked up to see him staring at her, his cheeks rosy from the heavy drinking and stifling heat in the room; his lips were slightly parted, as if there was a word on the tip of his tongue, and there was a strange gleam in his pale eyes.

"Eva," he said.

"Ivan," she returned. Then, when he didn't say anything more—which, in her opinion, was awkward—she hastily asked, "Why don't you ever take off your gloves?"

Ivan glanced down at his thickly-clad hands, as if noticing the gloves for the first time. He stared at them for a moment, seemingly baffled, before shrugging. "I get cold."

His coat and sweater was draped over the back of his seat, his scarf sitting on the top of the pile; he was left in a pale T-shirt, jeans, and boots. If he was cold, he would have kept everything on.

But Elizabeta nodded as if this answer made perfect sense. "I see."

She gingerly sipped at her drink while Ivan continued to examine his hands. After a moment of silence, he spoke suddenly, "Would you believe me if I told you that I am afraid?"

There was something small and vulnerable in his voice that made Elizabeta lean forward, intrigued by this fragility.

"Afraid of what?"

"I am afraid…" Ivan exhaled shakily. "I am afraid that if I take off my gloves, I would hurt whomever I touch."

Now _that_ , that was simply ridiculous—was the first thing Elizabeta thought. A pair of gloves would not—and did not—stop Ivan from hurting people, his own sister included. It was stupid thought, and Elizabeta told him so, although not so harshly.

"I know…" Ivan looked embarrassed. "It's just…" He trailed off, staring into the distance. Something must have happened, something that was not on his file, which meant that it was one of those rare secrets that even the billion eyes of the Northern government had not spied.

Curious as she was, however, Elizabeta decided not to press. "It's okay," she tried to reassure him with a simple smile. "I know you wouldn't hurt anyone on purpose."

She had half the mind to stab herself just for saying this.

At least it worked a little. Ivan seemed to relax, slightly comforted. His eyes searched her face, looking for any clues of disbelief, but brightened when he could detect none. Despite the slur of his words, the pale violet orbs that he fixed onto her were strangely clear.

"Eva," he called her name breathlessly. She didn't respond, but returned the same intense attention towards him. She watched as he lifted his hands, his eyes still fixated on her, and he carefully pulled loose each of the fingers of his black leather gloves, before plucking them off and discarding them to one side.

His hands were pale and large, but thinner and more graceful without the bulk of the thick material wrapping outside them. They were calloused with chipped nails, like the typical soldier hands, but somehow still delicate. They were not killer's hands. There was something naïve about these hands, like a timid bird exploring unknown terrain as he reached across the table and took Elizabeta's hand.

His fingers left icy trails that burned across her skin and she instinctively closed her hand around his, fruitlessly trying to warm it even a little bit.

"I might hurt you," Ivan breathed.

"You won't hurt me." It was as much of a promise to him as a reassurance to herself.

Carefully, Ivan placed his other pale hand over hers. She released her grip on his fingers and allowed him to raise her hand slowly to his mouth. His lips were rough where it brushed against the back of her hand, and she had to repress the urge to shudder.

"Ivan," she murmured, "I don't—"

"Come," he whispered abruptly, his lips moving against his skin, and he stood, pulling her up with him.

"What—,"

He kissed her.

For a second, Elizabeta was frozen, her mind paralysed in shock. But she did not resist, and Ivan took that as a green light, drawing up against her as a naked hand threaded through her brown curls and pressed her tight into him. She could taste the alcohol and lust heavy in his breath.

She did not resist, but she sighed into the kiss. " _Ivan_."

They broke apart. Both of them were breathing hard, but there was a dazed look on Ivan's face, somewhat disbelieving with a hint of something that looked like— _fear_? "Eva," he gasped, "I—"

"Let's go somewhere else," Elizabeta suggested quietly. "Somewhere less public."

He nodded, his eyes still a little unfocused; they swept across the bar, and then he took Elizabeta's wrist in a lightly trembling hand. "Come with me."

He led her past the rowdy, drunken, dancing crowds and booming music, into a dark hall where she knew the toilets were. However, he pulled her past the toilets and deeper into the darkness, slipping through a small, inconspicuous door at the end of the hall into a tiny room, probably a closet, though it was too dark to make sure.

Ivan fumbled for a light switch, but gave up after a moment and simply returned his focus onto Elizabeta. They groped for each other in the dark, their mouths pressed together in a passionate and desperate exchange. Elizabeta was crushed between Ivan and the wall; she could feel icy fingers teasing their way up her shirt, and she in turn clutched more tightly onto Ivan, her fingernails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders and back. She nipped at his lip, and he moaned against her, then began to trail burning kisses from the edge of her mouth to her jawline, giving a hard nip on her neck that made her arch her body into his.

She went slack against the wall, letting Ivan explore her with his rough lips and frozen hands. Her own hand inched towards her thigh-high boots, where she had carefully hidden a tiny, poisoned needle.

She was discreetly dislodging the needle from its hiding place when Ivan, nuzzling her neck, murmured, "Did you know?" He accompanied each word with a tender brush of his dry lips, "I lied."

"About what?" Elizabeta kept her voice breathless.

"The New Year's Party…" His grip on her tightened until it was almost painful, and Elizabeta couldn't help but gasp. No doubt there would be bruises tomorrow. "I _did_ go."

It took a moment for Elizabeta to register the words, but when she did, she felt her heartbeat stutter. Ivan placed a final kiss on her jawline before raising his head to meet Elizabeta's wide eyes. In the darkness, the only light coming from the door cracks, Ivan's expression was alert, wolfish, and insane.

Elizabeta realised a moment too late that Ivan had never been drunk. _It was all an act—_

A large, cold hand caressed her collarbone. Ivan grinned, bloodlust gleaming in his eyes. "You were there."

She screamed—or tried to. A hand closed around her neck, slamming her against the wall and cutting off her air supply. Elizabeta choked. She grappled for the needle in her boot, but it wouldn't come out: she was too frantic, her hands were shaking. Desperately, she kicked out blindly, and there was a grunt when her toes made contact with Ivan's shin. He loosened his grip momentarily, but only long enough for her to draw in a hasty breath before it tightened again.

Elizabeta gasped and struggled. Her vision was flashing, and the dim lighting left multicoloured dots imprinted in the back of her eyelids. She felt Ivan's icy breath tangle in her hair as he whispered into her ear, "You were a slut at the party, and you killed the General, didn't you?"

She clawed at Ivan's hands, feeling her nails tear and bloody.

"You didn't see me, of course, but I remember you. You have the killer's mark—I could spot you from miles away."

Elizabeta could feel her consciousness slipping. Ivan's voice sounded further and further away as her body slackened against the unwavering grip, but she could still hear him as he purred, "The winter never forgets the face of one which he has marked, _Eva Novák_."

And then there was nothing more.

* * *

 **Ivan Braginsky does not die. He still has an entire arc in the future. Either way, any comments, questions, concerns, put them in the review box. We appreciate feedback of any kind.**


	6. Towards Death

_**Immortality is a Disease**_

 **Towards Death**

Gilbert had never been so less-than-happy to see Ludwig. He was not _unhappy_ , per se, but the initial joy of a family reunion was crushed almost immediately by Ludwig's stiff and meticulous manner. Of course, Ludwig had always been something of a perfectionist, detail-oriented and precise, and therefore rather demanding at times, but since he had joined the army, it seemed like the stick had been stuck even further up his ass.

So _no_ , Gilbert Beilschmidt was not upset, but he was definitely not happy.

Not that anyone could really tell. As much as his heart was telling himself to ditch his younger brother and get drunk in some remote bar in the nearby town, duty demanded that he remained sober while watching the prisoner's march as their prison camp welcomed new subjects for torture and suffering.

However, duty did not demand that he treated his brother the way a respected officer of the Northern army should, although if Ludwig noticed that Gilbert was giving him the semi-cold shoulder, he did not show it in the way he continued to (try to) strike up polite conversation with his elder brother. Gilbert, in his attempt to keep up his cold treatment, answered all the questions with the shortest responses possible.

"Speaking of which, Gilbert, is it late? I thought it was supposed to start at one."

Gilbert glimpsed at his watch. "A little late."

But right on cue, from afar, drums began to pound. The soldiers snapped into attention.

For a long time, nothing happened. Gilbert was posted at the first intersection from the prison camp, and he had done this enough times—once—to know that it would be a while more before the first prisoners would appear in their march. The crowds lining the streets behind Gilbert and his fellow soldiers shuffled patiently, and everyone seemed hushed and tense. Nobody liked these prisoner marches, yet everyone came to watch it all the same.

The drums continued to pound.

It was tradition for the prisoners to come every three months and walk through the town before entering the gates, never to come out again. This was Gilbert's second march, and he was already bored of it. He had thought that there would be some malice during the march, maybe some jeering spectators and thrown insults or rocks, but instead, there was only silence. The prison camp was located in a very average-sized town, and at every march, they just watched the newcomers trudge down the streets, their silence almost respectful, like a parting serenade, the last and only kindness the prisoners will receive at this town.

It made Gilbert sick. It made him feel trapped in a place that hated him and anyone associated with him, because that's what this silence was: pity for the prisoners, disgust for the guards.

Next to him, Ludwig watched the road intently. If he kept this up, Gilbert couldn't help but think with a hint of amusement, he would be partially blind by the time they catch a glimpse of the newest prisoners.

Twenty minutes later, Ludwig gave up his staring contest with nothingness and returned to his pathetic attempts of conversation with his brother.

"Do you know how many prisoners are coming?"

"No."

Ludwig was silent for a moment, then, "I heard that this camp was built for science. Do you know what they do there?"

 _Did he really want to know?_ Gilbert couldn't help the disgust that flashed across his face, and he knew that Ludwig saw it too when the elder turned to the younger and said, a hint of a snarl in his voice, "You are not a scientist. That is not for you to know."

Ludwig looked uncomfortable, almost guilty, though Gilbert suspected that he wasn't feeling bad for asking about something whose horrors were so obvious, but for being nosy.

"I was just asking." He sounded like a bashful child.

Gilbert turned away from his brother. "Then stop asking."

And that was when the prisoners came into view.

The crowd behind them stirred one last time, then stilled completely. Even the wind seemed to cease as the prisoners, escorted by several guards, made their way through the streets lined with staring eyes. All of their hands were cuffed behind their backs, with chains that herded them into a line, like cattle. The chains sickened him too. This wasn't the sixteenth century, and the fact that eight hundred years later they were still using these things made Gilbert feel the bleakness of it all: the world, mankind, the war.

He estimated about twenty new prisoners. The majority were men, but he caught sight of a few women as well, their heads shaved like the men, but still clearly distinguishable.

"There are children…" Gilbert heard Ludwig murmur, and realised that he was right. He didn't spot them before as they were huddled in the shadow of a tall, skeletal man—possibly their father, possibly not—and there was simply something inexplicable wretched about seeing two children, no older than twelve, wrapped in chains as thick as their arms.

Gilbert's hands involuntarily clenched into fists, but when he glanced to the side for a glimpse of his brother's reaction, all he saw was impassive coldness. From this profile, Gilbert realised for the first time just how much Ludwig looked like their late grandfather. Both were the image of a perfect Northern soldier, with their impeccable golden hair and eyes like chips of ice, their faces a harsh yet beautiful cut of sharp angles and straight lines. They had the same heart too, Gilbert thought. They were the kind of people who were truly of the North, with a bit of that deadly winter inside of their souls.

He looked away, unable to stand the sight of his brother's blank expression, opting to watch the prisoners instead.

But—Gilbert felt like he was comforting himself—neither Ludwig nor his grandfather were perfect. After all, if the reports could be believed, their grandfather had been killed by a prostitute.

He remembered the New Year's party, the stuffy room filled with more fake laughter than actual friendship. The girl entwined in General Beilschmidt's arms, her face a blur in his memory, even as her shadowed eyes haunted him.

Was it her, he wondered? Or another prostitute? There had been so many, and all of them had darkness in them, a sort of bleak fury that came when one had to rely on selling oneself to survive.

He also wondered why. Was the victim chosen at random—whoever unlucky enough to get tangled up with her would be killed—or was it calculated, planned?

Apparently they caught the killer, though Gilbert still didn't know who she was. He had the prisoners' files on his desk, but hadn't bothered to read them yet.

He saw, once again, those dark green eyes in his memory. They were so vivid that it felt almost surreal. He could remember the exact shape of them, the way they had narrowed and tilted to watch him; he remembered the exact curve of the dark lashes that framed them, and the way the shadows writhed and grew, like a beast waking, hungry for blood. Like anger and mourning and fear and loneliness. He could see those eyes, the war raging inside of them, and also the promise of death.

He was seeing those eyes.

They glinted from the shadows amongst the prisoners, and at that moment, Gilbert knew that someone was going to die.

There was a loud clang of chains, a cry of shock, and then chaos.

A guard was dead. He lay there in the middle of the street, his neck twisted in an unnatural angle, his hands—empty. A young woman stood over the body, broken chains dangling from her wrists and trailing from her ankles, the dead soldier's rifle in her hand. She held it like she knew how to use it, and when she raised it and pointed it at the second guard, Gilbert knew that she did.

The first shot was accompanied by silence. The second, by screams. Screams from the people as the crowd began to flee. Chaos broke around him, yet Gilbert could only stare at that young woman, her face small and sharp, delicate yet fierce; a layer of brown fuzz had grown over her shaved head, but the baldness was still there, and it made her eyes look larger and darker than ever. At that moment, Gilbert would not have called her beautiful, but he recognized the viciousness and determination and he was entranced.

Open fire. More screams. The other prisoners were flat on the ground, the man hunched over the two children and clutching them close. The streets were nearly deserted, and as the citizens disappeared, the soldiers' daring emerged.

The young woman, the gun in her hand, had fled the moment the first shots were fired. Under different circumstances, Gilbert might have applauded her determined agility and swiftness, but the harsh reality was that he was probably the highest ranking officer in the vicinity, which meant that while he was still impressed, he had responsibilities.

"Twos and threes!" he shouted. "Do not move alone! The prisoner is armed and dangerous!" And fascinatingly impressive, which was why he added, "Disarm and capture! Bring her back alive!"

"Why not just shoot her?" Ludwig asked, as always the perfect soldier: brutal and cold.

Then Gilbert just had to be even more brutal. The smile he shot at his brother was razor sharp. "Where's the fun in that?"

Because they both knew that a slow, painful death waited behind the walls of the camp, but Ludwig focused only on the 'painful' aspect of that death, while Gilbert could only think about 'slow'. It made him feel terrible, yet at the same time, strangely hopeful.

The chaos of the prisoner's escape seemed to vanish as quickly erupted, but the tension remained, the battle transforming into a hunt.

Gilbert doubted the search would last long. The North was big, so even a small town like the one they were in was of a considerable size, but the soldiers knew the town like the back of their hand. The woman, starved and shackled, was at a disadvantage.

The streets were nearly deserted, and save for the occasional calls of searching soldiers, the town was silent.

Gilbert didn't like the silence. Silence in the North was a suffocating affair; the vastness of the land and the coldness of the climate only served to blanket the silence over a larger area so that it felt like you were surrounded by it, that it was impossible to escape from it. Silence in the North felt like death.

And yet he could not be relieved when shouts and shots exploded in the distance. It broke the silence, yes, but death was nearer than ever before.

Exchanging a look with Ludwig, the two brothers hurried towards the rising racket.

Two groups of soldiers—five in total—had trapped the prisoner in the bend of a street. Her rifle had gone off, and then she broke into the building closest to her—which turned out to be a bakery—attempting to escape through the back door, only for the storekeeper to pull a gun on her, because even though the people of this town pitied the prisoners, it didn't mean that they were willing to help them. Instead of killing the man, which she could easily have done, she had backtracked, only to be ambushed by the soldiers outside.

Disarmed and stunned by the heavy blow across her temple by the butt of a rifle, the prisoner had collapsed, and when Gilbert and Ludwig arrived she was curled up on the ground, feebly fending off the soldier's kicks and jabs with bony arms.

 _How dramatic and immature_ , Gilbert thought, observing the bloodthirsty expressions and vicious insults with distaste.

"That's enough!" he called sharply, channeling his inner General Beilschmidt while continuing to feel dwarfed by the immovable coldness marching by his side. "The prisoner belongs to the camp. She is not your plaything."

"Have it chained and escorted to the camp. Make sure the rest gets there too," instructed Ludwig. He was new and likely not the highest-ranked, but his mere appearance was enough to make the soldiers snap to attention, salute, and obey.

They watched the soldiers haul the woman to her feet. Bruises were blooming on the skin that they could see, and there was a nasty cut on her temple that dripped blood down her face. She sagged between two soldiers, conscious but unwilling, and as she was dragged away, Gilbert could feel her intense stare on him, though he pretended not to notice.

"Would be easier to have shot her on the spot," said Ludwig.

Gilbert sighed. "Let's just say that we're doing a favour for the people. I doubt they'd appreciate the bloodstains on the streets."

The younger let out a little huff of laughter, and for one moment, Gilbert could almost imagine that Ludwig was not the spitting image of their grandfather, and that the winter had not yet settled so deeply into the character of his brother. For one moment, they were just two people on the streets, and Gilbert wished that it wasn't so cold, or so empty, or that they hadn't been laughing over a joke about blood.

Except it was on the verge of winter, and people were only just emerging from the safety of their homes, and he could see a small splatter of crimson on the steps of the bakery, and the illusion that had barely begun to form was shattered.

"Let's go." He spun on his heels, and, not bothering to wait for Ludwig, who was taller and had longer strides so he would be able to catch up easily, marched back towards camp.

Towards death.

* * *

Elizabeta wondered what exactly she had been trying to accomplish when she broke her chains and killed her guards. Her body had moved before her mind could catch up, and yet she couldn't regret it. Sometimes she thought that her body knew what she wanted more than her mind did. Every single cell of her knew that everything would be over the moment she steps through those looming gray walls that towered over the small, nameless town and every single cell of her knew that she did not want to go down without a fight, except her mind was a coward and her body was a fighter.

It felt like it had always been like this, as if she was two people in one body, always being tugged in opposite directions, her body and mind being torn into two different screaming voices that raged and warred even though there had only ever been one thing that she should be focusing on, should be acting for. _For the people_.

She remembered in the early days when she joined _Az Embereknek_ , the man who had taught her the art of murder had told her that everything in this world was a war: from the bombs falling out of planes onto civilian houses to the one man who points at a mark on the map and condemned that spot to decimation, from the rations that people were forced to survive with to the children sneaking the news from the newspapers their parents had stuffed into the bottom of the bin. This had been the world for long over a decade, and they were just another cog of the larger conflict, another will warring for peace.

And like a true creature born of war, the whole of Elizabeta was a struggle that can only ever end in a grudging and fragile truce that soon shatters once again the moment she was faced with murder—and it costed her.

It had been nearly two weeks since she had jerked back into consciousness in a bare prison cell with a shaved head and ugly blotches around her throat in the shape of a massive hand that wrenched away not just a bit of her voice, but also her freedom, her life.

Everything was ruined. It was ruined long before they starved and beat her in the prison, ruined before they did unspeakable things to her in those short eleven days, ruined the moment the letter from nobody told her to kill a relative of the most powerful man in the North.

The concrete walls rose around her like faceless giants stirring into immobility, throwing her into a shadow colder than any winter she had lived through. The edge of this shadow marked the boundaries of another world. A world of death.

Elizabeta wondered how Irunya was faring. She wondered what Ivan told her; he didn't seem like the kind of person to tell the truth—then again, Elizabeta doubted she had ever really known what kind of person he was—and she wondered what lie he spun to cover her disappearance.

Behind her, behind the other prisoners marching after her, behind the soldiers escorting her, behind the two men—one with the colours of winter, the other with a face and demeanor carved from it—the doors slammed shut.

It probably wasn't difficult, now that Elizabeta thought about it. There had been rumours going on for quite a while about people disappearing, especially women. Irunya had warned her several times. She would just have become another victim of the gods that Ivan Braginsky's sister feared so much.

"Take her that way," a uniformed man was instructing the two guards flanking her, "With the other women."

She was led away. Some vital part of her had become remote and impassive. Perhaps at long last, she had split from Elizabeta and became a body and a mind, and though her chin was still proudly raised and her spine defiantly straight despite the pain that soaked into her bones, her mind was a churning mass of thoughts, addled further by the blood dripping from the blow to her temple.

Inside, panic threaded with fear mixed with confusion mashed with horror blanketed by indifference. She felt everything and nothing at all.

She looked back, just once. A woman behind her had started crying, softly, tears rolling carefully yet swiftly down her cheeks as if afraid of behind seen. Elizabeta did not see her, nor did she care.

She looked at the two figures that had stayed by the prison camp gate. One stared straight ahead, statue-like, impassive and immovable and so similar to a man she had killed, not too long ago. But General Wilhelm Beilschmidt is dead without a doubt, and so she did not care. She did not care for the living until it was time for them to die by her hands.

She wondered where her fire went. The fire had kept her going for years and years, and now she felt cold and abandoned, as if the shadow of the camp had buried the final coals of her will to fight, to serve, to be more than just another child being tossed and drowned by the waves of war.

Her glance met eyes—dark red, tinged with violet. She had met that soldier before, her mind reacted suddenly, and though she didn't remember where, she remembered thinking that he was different from the others, similar to her.

He hated something, something even he himself did not know, something so big that it didn't matter how strong his hatred was, he would never be able to do anything against it. But the strange thing about the North was that people like him were better than the others. This kind of over-large hatred marked out the better people, the ones less touched by the winter. She could see the stiffness of his posture, the disgust tightly pinched in the corners of his downturned mouth. She could see his hatred in those eyes, red like war, like blood on snow, like silent, scorching anger, like hell-wrought death.

Then she was marched into a white room with the other women, and the gaze broke. They stopped there, the ground too pristine for their grimy selves, lights too blinding and walls too white to match the bloody scent of the room. Already, Elizabeta's mind was conjuring screams into the silence. No one spoke until several men and women in coats as falsely white as the walls entered, and gestured at the guards.

"One by one, if you would."

She was handed over first, unsurprisingly. One soldier stayed with her, the other with the rest of the women. She walked through one door into a room and left through another, entering another room which she left through another door. Then the soldier left, the doors were locked, and she was laid down on a bed with ugly white sheets. Something in the hard mattress dug uncomfortably into her shoulder blade, and she kept her hands closely tucked next to her so that they wouldn't slide past the edges of the bed.

"Relax," one of the doctors said.

Elizabeta closed her eyes. She closed them against the harsh lights, closed her heart, closed her mind, closed her soul, closed everything that made her feel, against the world.

Against pain.

Against death.

* * *

 **I realise that this is a short and uneventful and generally disappointing chapter after eight months of absence. I doubt anyone is reading this story anymore, which is fine. We don't have much of an excuse, other than that life is hard and it is finally summer. Hopefully the next chapter will be more entertaining. Or at least, it will be, as long as you all review.**


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